


with an open-hearted hope and a closed hand

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Asexuality, F/M, Fluff, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, surprise surprise, trans man norrell, trans woman childermass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To her surprise, at Hurtfew Childermass finds her name, herself, and the place where she belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with an open-hearted hope and a closed hand

**Author's Note:**

> hi I'm the biggest sap in the world and I've been thinking about this AU since last night and I wrote this in like four hours today on the bus and at work, so I'm sorry that it's kind of sketchy. Also i figured out footnotes.

 

Childermass realizes six months into her employment with Norrell precisely what she wants.

It takes her a long time to figure it out, or so it seems. She thinks she ought to have known when she was a child, but it's a combination of things that haven't really made sense up till now; how longer hair makes her feel more comfortable, how the thought of a different name sends a shot of warmth down her spine, comforting and happy. How there's a tension she's never really noticed that's gone when she calls herself _she_ in her own head.

The decision is more complicated than that, because they always are, but the end result is that she knows who she is, and she's ready to make it evident to the world.

She tells Dido first, of course, because Dido is the closest thing to a friend she has in the house. She takes it well enough. "Do you want a dress?" she asks, looking thoughtfully at Childermass. "Only I could get one."

"In my size?"

"Aye. I know a woman. It won't be the most fashionable thing, but -" Dido looks Childermass up and down - "I really don't think you care about that."

Childermass grins crookedly. "No, that's true enough. Well, all right. Thank you, then." She hadn't thought to have that, and it sounds nice. Something she couldn't quite have hoped for - the idea that not only would people accept her, but facilitate her. 

"Your name," says Dido, putting her hands on her hips. "Have you got one? Are you going to use something else?"

Childermass feels suddenly self-conscious. She knows, has known for a very long time, even before she knew what she was, and as soon as she'd thought about it the answer had come shooting in like a lighting bolt, but oddly she hasn't rehearsed this. "Joan," she says, "After my mam."

Dido's face breaks into a wide, soft grin. "That's lovely. Joan. Shall I tell the others?"

"Not just yet. I'd rather tell them myself, when I'm ready." She hesitates. "When we're alone could you - "

"Of course, Joan," says Dido.

After that, Dido is her staunchest ally on the house. It's nice to have someone on her side.

-

It's backwards, she'll grant anyone that. Any reasonable person would have told her employer first, then, after testing the waters, changed how she looked.

But, well, Childermass has never been conventional. It's for this reason that when the dress arrives from Dido - old and worn and black and out of style, to her satisfaction, because at least that's comforting and familiar - she puts it on the next morning and goes to work in the library. She changes nothing else; her hair is in its usual loose untidy bundle, her fingernails as ink-stained as they ever are.

Norrell looks up at her, stares at her for a moment, and then looks away. She's braced for some explosion of disapproval, perhaps even rage. But he says nothing that is not about their business the entire day. She waits and waits for something to shew that he noticed it properly, but he does not seem inclined to be the first to discuss it. He does not even stare at her more.

Finally, at the end of the day, he suddenly remarks, "It is new."

"Yes," she says, bracing herself. "Why?"

"It does not look new." Norrell purses his lips. "I would have thought that if you were updating your wardrobe you might have worn something that hasn't been turned twice."

"It's only been turned once, Dido assures me," Childermass corrects. "Which shows how little you know about sewing. And besides - " her gaze sweeps up and down him - "I don't think you're one to talk about fashion."

Norrell smiles. It's the faintest little thing she's ever seen, barely a curve of his lips, but she knows by the way his eyes drop that it's genuine. "I suppose not," he admits.

There's a long pause. Then he says, finally, "And will this modification in dress occasion any other changes?"

Childermass hesitates, but it's silly to be nervous at this late stage, she tells herself. She's already done the hardest thing; he _knows_ , so there's no use putting it off. "It's Joan, not John," she tells him. "And 'she', if you please, while you're about it. Is there going to be any problem with that?"

Norrell looks up at her. Again, some part of her is expecting some hostility, but he just shrugs. "I have never had cause to use your Christian name in the course of our working relationship, Childermass, and I highly doubt I will. It would be most improper. Therefore, what you chuse to call yourself is your choice. Should any of the other servants trouble you, dismiss them. I will not have infighting among my staff."

"I won't lose my position," she says, hardly believing it, though she hadn't known she was afraid of it till the fear was relieved.

Norrell sniffs derisively. "Don't be absurd. Finding a new steward and getting used to them all over again, after you have proven yourself to be perfectly competent, would be far more of a trial than changing a single pronoun."

Childermass feels her shoulders untensing slightly as she wonders in awe at how well this has gone. She has to hold back a minute sigh of relief. And just like that, she feels safer.

-

She comes into the library in breeches one day, in preparation for riding out later on. She doesn't mind having to change her dress for the purposes of practicality; there's no reason she shouldn't utilize the resources at her command, she thinks. She knows who she is, and now everyone else does too, and that's the important thing.

It does draw comment, though. "No dress today, I see," says Norrell.

"You know I'm off to York on your business." She raises an eyebrow at him. "Ever tried riding a horse in a dress?"

She's expecting an outburst of indignation along the lines of "I have never worn a dress in my life, Childermass!" but in fact Norrell says, "I was never much of a rider" rather absently and returns to his paperwork.

Childermass blinks. It's just then that she starts wondering, and when she does, all the pieces fall into place. His reluctance to let her see him in any state of undress, his particular posture, the looseness of his dress. All of those could be other things, but...

After that she keeps an eye on him. It's there if you know how to look for it, but only if you do. She has experience, after all. She sees the nerves and the care he takes, sees his agitation when his hair gets too long or his clothes are too tight. Even the occasional little smile when she calls him _sir_ , as if even after all this time, and it must have been a while since he began, it still pleases him.

She doesn't speak to him about it, at first. It's his own private business and none of hers, regardless of the commonalities. But in the end, he tells her. Unprompted, one morning when they are sitting in the library and working on their own separate business.

She doesn't know why he took it into his head to do it then, except that he must have been following some private trail of thought that lead him to this conclusion. In any case, he looks up, sets down his pen, and says, "We have many things in common, you know."

Childermass blinks at him. "I beg your pardon, sir?" It takes her a moment to realize what he's talking about.

"You.... The changes you made." Norrell stares at his hands, as if he can't quite believe he's making the choices he is. "Other people make them. In other ways and other directions. That is to say -"

She could feign ignorance, but she decides to spare him. "And you have too. I know, sir. I suspected."

He looks up sharply and opens his mouth, so she continues, "Don't worry, other people won't notice. I know because I know all the little things you do to keep it hidden. Someone who doesn't would never be able to see. You're safe, sir."

Norrell's expression is soothed back into neutrality. "Well. Now you know. What will you do?"

"What are expecting me to?"

Norrell shrugs. "I do not know. I have never told any one before."

A wave of fondness passes through Childermass. She thinks she shouldn't be feeling it, not from just this, but Lord. That he trusted her, the way he has trusted no one else. The hint of defiance on his face, as if daring her to mock him for it or expose his secret to the world, and who else has he known that this is his automatic reaction?

She has, now, the vague idea that she wants something else, too. It's a stupid idea, and she'd thought she'd exorcised that part of herself long ago, but Norrell, sitting there and nervously revealing what may be his deepest secret, has managed to dislodge something. He has that way about him - a sort of unconscious ability to disarm you. Damn him.

She's not going to act on it, she tells herself. She's not going to.

-

And yet once again it is Norrell who disrupts a perfectly well-thought out plan. One afternoon she is being arch about magicians and he is looking at her and she realizes that there's fondness in it. He's making an attempt at disguising it, of course, but he's failing quite badly. He never has been much at hiding his heart.

Childermass meets his eyes, and for once, he doesn't look away; he seems caught, pinned where he is by her gaze.

Slowly, he leans closer to her.

For a giddy moment she thinks he'll kiss her. His hands come over the table and take hers, and then his eyes drop to them, as if that is all he can bear. Childermass laces their fingers together and says, "It's all right, sir."

He starts and almost pulls back, but, while she'd let him go if he wanted, he stops resisting immediately when he realizes she has not pulled away either.

"Is this what you want?" she asks, gently as she can, not a demand but a question.

"I..." He looks up again and meets her eyes.

"Was there something else?"

"It is a very poor idea." Norrell's eyes are on her lips now, to her amusement; it's very good that he does not have to hide his thoughts from her, or he would be in trouble.

"I can't be certain of that until you tell me," she says.

He takes a ragged breath. "Childermass," he says,"I - I'm not sure you will want - "

"You started this," she reminds him. He does not move away. Neither does she. "Do you wish to continue it, sir?"

"I can't - " says Norrell, and she moves to turn away, but his hands come up to her face and rest against her cheeks, trembling a little with his nerves.

"Joan, please," he says, so close she can feel his breath. His eyes are shut now, as if that will somehow make it easier. "I cannot name it. You know. I know you know, you always - please."

"Aye, sir," she says, and closes the gap.

Norrell kisses with the tentative uncertainty of someone unsure of both their technique and their welcome, but Childermass doesn't mind. They have time. Her hands come up to cradle the back of his neck, brushing at the delicate little hairs of his nape, and she takes a moment to absorb the feeling of being here, pressed against him, for the first time. His hands are soft as he brushes the thumbs very carefully against her cheekbones like he can't _quite_ believe she's real. It's a feeling she quite understands.

When she pulls back Norrell says, "I don't want - anything else. I don't want you in my bed, or - anything like that. Please don't mistake me. This is enough."

Childermass kisses him again. "It is for me too," she says.

-

It's by degrees that she ends up in Norrell's bed after all. Not the way it sounds, though. No, her nightgown[1] stays on. Her virtue, too, stays intact, which is not a word she has ever thought to associate with herself, but which Norrell seems concerned about.

He frets constantly about her reputation, in fact, as well as his own. "I should not like to be thought of as the sort of man who troubles his servants in their beds," he says, "And I should not like you to be thought of as the kind of woman who might conduct impropriety with her employer."

Childermass gives him a look. "I _am_ conducting impropriety with my employer. Besides, it's your bed you're proposing to take me to, sir."

Norrell, predictably, splutters. "Don't put it that way, Childermass, it sounds dreadful."

Childermass's long sideways smile creeps up her face. "Think of it this way. What we're doing or not doing is nobody's business but our own, and no-one will know save, perhaps, a few of the other servants. They know you, and they know you won't bother them. Aside from that, anyone else's opinion is irrelevant."

So Norrell sighs, and bids her stay. To reward his directness, she complies with no further teasing, burrowing under the covers and curling up beside him. He squirms until he is close enough to her to, she assumes, steal her warmth. She's never known anyone quite so nesh before.

Childermass is expecting to go straight to sleep, but she finds that the strangeness of another body next to her after so long is making her alert. Norrell must feel the same. So it is that they spend their first night sleeping together talking instead of sleeping.

It starts out with magic, the way these things do, and eventually turns toward their respective peculiarities, as Norrell puts it. She suspects this conversation was inevitable; she's never known anyone like herself, and from his comments, he never has either. It's a strange and rewarding pleasure, to be able to discuss the trials and triumphs of the entire business. So many things that no one else would understand, that are instantly comprehensible between them.

"Do you find it painful, sometimes?" he asks. "The...things. Being the wrong shape. The fear of being discovered."

Childermass shrugs a little. "Not such a great deal, but a bit. Sometimes I think I'd like not to be flat-chested, for instance. I've never been much off skinny, but still, be nice to have something."

Norrell regards her for a moment. In a tone as dry as dust he says, "You may have mine, if you like. I'm afraid I don't properly appreciate them."

Childermass, startled by this unexpected flash of humor, laughs. "I don't suppose you know a spell for that, sir?"

"Unfortunately, I do not." Norrell sighs and lays his head on her shoulder. "I assure you, I have looked. But spells of personal shape-changing, even on such minor matters, are both rare and unsafe. And they do not work."

Childermass wraps an arm around him. "You tried them, then."

"They were among the first I tried, yes, after the Raven King - " He bites his tongue and turns his face into her shoulder.

"Didn't come?" says Childermass quietly.

"Aye," says Norrell. "I thought he would fix me, you see. I thought if only I called him long enough he would come and I would be right, finally, and it would all fall into place. The foolish dreams of a child."

Her fingers trace circles into his waist, and he takes a deep breath. "I was twelve, you know, when I decided - I want to go to school you see - and then it felt right, and comfortable, and I came to my uncle's house and he was none the wiser and I..." He shudders as Childermass's fingers make their way to his back, rubbing gently soothing patterns there.

"You needn't have told me," she says.

"I know your tale. It seems...fair exchange."

"You know a piece of it, yes. And I know a piece of yours. You don't like your name."

"I beg your pardon?" Norrell looks up at her.

"Gilbert. You don't like it."

"I dislike it less than my given name."

"Why pick it, if you didn't like it?"

"It was my grandfather's name. It was the most logical choice."

Childermass thinks about that for a while. She's always been, she thinks, her own woman, and she took her mam's name because it was familiar and comforting and made her feel close to her. She thinks, though she can never be sure, that Joan would be proud of it.

But Norrell chose his name not because it meant something to him, but so that he would be safe, or as safe as he could. That's a fair choice; it's not a safe world for people like them. But to be governed by expectations like that, to have a name you chose that still does not feel like your own...

She feels strangely protective of Norrell, then. He is so very much a creature of fear. And yet, she realizes, with him she feels safe. Despite the patent absurdity of that, it's a feeling she can't shake. Here in Hurtfew, quiet, hushed, never-changing Hurtfew, there's a peace she's found nowhere else.

And that, she considers, is a good thought to sleep on.

 

 

1It's in fact the same nightshirt she's had since she was sixteen - and a bit short it's become, it's fortunate that it was large then - but she sees no need for a new one just because she's changed her name and wears a dress sometimes now. They're full of froth and frills, most nightgowns, and Joan Childermass has never been much of a one for frills.[return to text]


End file.
